


A Road For Home

by hymnaries (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Romance, Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hymnaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six years since Sheriff Castiel Milton last saw Dean Winchester, three since he left his life in Massachusetts behind for a lonely outpost in New Mexico Territory. In this self-imposed exile, he's at last begun to separate himself from the man he used to be. But after a tragic event causes Dean to reach out to him once more, Castiel not only finds himself confronted with the past he so desperately tried to forget, but also with a newly grown-up Dean who has not so easily buried the feelings that propelled their unconventional relationship into uncharted territory those many years ago. Against the backdrop of the Reconstruction Era West, the two men revisit the events that led to their separation and tentatively explore the possibility of a future together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Road For Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The 2013 Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge, Artwork by nrrrdy_grrrl (http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/178377.html)
> 
> I had absolutely no intention of writing the fic I'm publishing today. I started off with an entirely different concept, a very different cast of characters, and a meager hope that I would be able to pull it off by my posting date. Of course, one week ago I decided I hated everything I'd written thus far and took on the challenge of crafting a new story in that time frame. Somehow, I managed it. But this would hardly be without the support of my dear Rachel, and my wonderful beta, Shellie. They encouraged me to keep trying, gave me feedback where I needed it, and listened to my whining and worrying with kindness and understanding. 
> 
> Though this story happened suddenly, I'm very glad it was me who got to tell it. Happy reading and I hope you enjoy!

New Mexico Territory, 1874

The knock at the door came as no surprise, but Castiel still froze in the middle of his small house, heart leaping wildly in his chest. His eyes fell to the open letter on the kitchen table and to the sweeping, hurried script that lay across it.

_Something happened, Cas. Or at least I think it did. Either way, he’s gone and I don’t have anybody else to go to. Please—_

Cas swept a hand over his face and breathed in deep. For someone who’d asked for nothing more than a way to escape the past, it certainly had a way of catching up with him.

The knocking picked up again, and he shook himself to action. With strides that spoke of more confidence than he felt, Castiel made his way to the front of the house, hands not quite knowing whether to remain at his sides or bury themselves deep in the pockets of his coat.

He paused in front of the door, knowing full well that he now hovered between two planes of existence: one in which Dean Winchester was still a distant memory, and one which would inevitably be thrown off balance by his presence once again.

But Castiel was not a coward. Life, in all of its conflicts, sorrows, and occasional triumphs, had taught him that much. So with a deep breath, he steeled himself for whatever was to come, and opened the door.

On the front porch was a man, tall and tanned but undoubtedly the Dean Winchester of Castiel’s memories. He stood clutching a dusty hat in front of his chest. Though this was exactly where he’d intended to be, he still looked incredibly lost.

They regarded each other for several moments, nothing but the breeze off the plains whistling between them. Beyond Dean’s broad shoulders ( _And when had he become so sturdy? So strong?_ ) the sky and the distant mountains had nearly blended together in a deep, unfathomable blue. The first few stars were twinkling to life. All around them, time was moving forward; Castiel couldn’t comprehend it. For him, everything was still. 

“Dean,” he said finally. It was the most he could manage.

Dean shifted awkwardly on the porch, fingers twisting along the strap of a weatherworn satchel hanging off his shoulder. “I wrote you,” he said quietly.

His voice was still hoarse from weeks of silent travel, but Castiel could already tell its timber was much deeper than he remembered. Somehow, during the years that stretched so endlessly between them, Dean had grown up.

When Castiel didn’t answer, Dean offered him a small smile. “It’s good to see you,” he said slowly, as if taking the time to test each word in his mouth before releasing it into the air. “It’s been, what, six years now?”

A flash of Dean at age sixteen flitted to the surface of Castiel’s mind. Wide green eyes. Freckles on his nose. Hands that itched to occupy themselves with twisting knots and mending saddles. The same hands that had reached for him without warning. Hands he pushed away.

Castiel had grown skilled at forgetting the Winchesters, but now that Dean stood before him once again, he found that every defense and every barrier he’d crafted was already falling away. It was as if they were in Kansas again, in the same barn that smelled like rain and damp hay, forever trapped in the moment when they did not know what the other tasted like, but were in every position to find out.

When Castiel looked up again, Dean’s expression had fallen. “Look,” he said. “If you don’t want me here, I can go. I don’t want to make you—”

Castiel stepped forward and enveloped him in a warm embrace. “I’m sorry,” he said into the stiff leather of Dean’s jacket. “I’m sorry.”

It was the most Cas had said to him in six years. He hoped, foolishly, that it would be enough. And though he knew deep down that it wasn’t, Dean’s arms still inevitably found their way around his back where they held firm, having no apparent intention of removing themselves anytime soon.

There, in Dean’s embrace, Castiel finally let go of the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

* * *

By all accounts, their paths never should have crossed.

Castiel was a Northeastern man, born and raised in the quaint Massachusetts town of Concord amongst a gaggle of other children, only one of which was his sibling by blood, a sister by the name of Anna with hair as fiery red as her passion for just about everything life had to offer. The others, his cousins, were a unique brand of mischief-makers; they dappled Castiel’s childhood memories with laughter. Though they would later scatter to the four winds – some North, some to the Midwest, one, even, to the deep South – and their communication would dwindle, their presence had instilled in him a deep love and desire for family that would follow him for the rest of his days.

He was well-educated, well-bred, and well-off by just about everybody’s standards. But for all intents and purposes, he was directionless. Even with options that spread as far and as wide as he could see, Castiel never felt more limited. It was almost a relief when the War came and he was called upon to serve the Union.

It was there that he met John Winchester. Though Castiel was barely twenty-two years old to John’s thirty-five, a sort of camaraderie sprung up between them. Soon enough, it fostered into a close friendship that lasted them throughout the tumultuous years of fighting against the Confederate troops. By war’s end, they were aware of each other’s most guarded secrets (though Castiel often reflected that his troubles paled to those of John, who had already lost his young wife and faced the prospect of fatherhood alone).

Finally, during the Battle of Palmito Ranch one sun-bright day in May, Castiel was one of nine Union soldiers injured in arguably the last of the Confederate army’s victories. John had been the one to tug him out of harm’s way, muttering about clumsiness and damn Harvard boys as lightly as if Castiel had knocked over a coffee pot rather than suffered a bullet through his thigh. In the end, they’d made it and John had refused to let Castiel make the long journey home to Concord on a busted leg.

“You’re staying with me and my boys in Lawrence,” he’d said. “And that’s the end of that.”

And so it was.

That summer, the summer of 1865, Dean Winchester first stepped into Castiel’s life. He’d come bursting out of the house with his brother, Sam, the moment John appeared around the bend. It occurred to Cas, suddenly, that the boys hadn’t seen their father in two years.

While Sam – who had only been eight at the time - threw himself into John’s arms, Dean hung back, one hand pressed against the trunk of a poplar tree. John laughed and patted his youngest on the back. “Howdy, Sammy,” he said, tucking his face into the mess of Sam’s dark hair. “Howdy, little man. 

When it was Dean’s turn, he merely extended his hand and muttered a quiet, “Hello, Sir.”

John responded in kind.

The first few weeks of Castiel’s stay were quiet. Though Sam was friendly enough, he tended to keep to his brother’s side; Dean was already proving to be distrusting by nature and uttered no more than two words to Castiel if he could help it. This would have been alright, he supposed, had a sudden change not fallen over John.

In contrast to the loud, confident man Castiel had known on the battlefield, John had become sullen and dark-minded, prone to hours of aimless wandering through the fields outside of Lebanon. Smiles that had once been easily and frequently given were now a rarity. Any affection he’d shown his sons became formality, shown only when he felt it absolutely necessary. With Cas, he preferred silence. But little about it was companionable.

The War, Castiel realized, had been an escape for John; it gave him something else to think about aside from the death of his wife. As Cas understood it, Mary had passed shortly before John’s enlistment, during the Lawrence Massacre. The fires started that August morning had engulfed much of the town, including the old Winchester house. Mary had prioritized her children’s escape, but had tragically neglected her own. No one could blame John for charging off to War after that, save, perhaps, for the two boys he left behind. 

Castiel tried his best to bring John out of the dreary fog that had descended over him, but no attempt at friendly conversation nor offer of comfort was successful. John was lost to him, and Castiel couldn’t help but feel that he’d failed somehow.

By June, having grown sick of silence, Cas announced that his sister had sent him several new books in the post that morning and that he would be reading them in the den after supper. All those interested would be welcome to join.

“What kind of books?” Dean asked suddenly, twisting his fork over his empty plate. It was the only full sentence he’d uttered to Castiel in three weeks.

“Well, Dean,” Cas replied, fighting the triumphant smile that threatened to spread across his face. “Have you ever heard of Jules Verne?”

After that first night, during which Castiel clumsily translated the French prose of _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ (the English translation would not be published until 1871; Castiel, who professed a deep love of science fiction ever since his adolescent explorations of _Frankenstein,_ was too impatient to wait and had gladly accepted the foreign copy) to an enraptured Sam and Dean, an odd sort of friendship struck up between the three.

They spent many lazy afternoons watching the horses graze in the small pasture that abutted the Winchester ranch. Sam wasn’t quite old enough to ride them on his own, but Castiel agreed to keep him company, being that he was of no use himself with his crutches perpetually by his side. While they watched, Dean trotted around on his father’s stallion, eager to show off to anyone who happened by. Even then, Castiel knew he’d make a fine cowboy.

Sometimes when the heat of the day became unbearable, they would retreat to the small creek that ran through a copse of trees on the edge of town. There, Dean taught Castiel how to fish.

“Haven't you ever seen a fishing pole before?” he asked, smirking as Cas struggled to attach a piece of chicken fat to the end of his hook.

“Not as though there are any fish to be spoken of here anyway,” Castiel said crossly.

Dean laughed again. His freckles were twice as pronounced in the midday sun. “I s’pose that would be a problem if we were fishing for trout.”

At Castiel’s confused stare, he added: “We’re looking for crawdads, Cas. You know, lobster-like things that—”

“I know what crawdads are.”

Dean, with all the confidence that only two years of being the man of the house could bring him, simply laughed again.

All at once, Castiel felt an incredible nostalgia for the days when Anna was young and eager to learn from him, the older brother she so admired. That had quickly faded by her adolescence. She was the captain of her own ship, and a much more capable one than Castiel. Though their bond was a deep one, Anna had quickly come to teach Cas more than he could ever have imparted to her.

But things felt more mutual with Dean. Though twelve years separated them in age, Castiel felt a profound understanding with the boy. And, as he often did with the few friends he’d managed to make in his life, Castiel began to consider Dean family. He liked to think the sentiment was reciprocated.

By summer’s end, Castiel was finding it difficult to entertain the prospect of leaving the Winchester ranch. While John continued to be inconsistent in his affections, his sons had come to depend on Cas more than any of them were liable to admit. But he did not quite realize how much he was needed until a blustery evening in late August.

Summer storms weren’t uncommon on the Plains, but this one was fixing to strike with a vengeance. Dark, billowing clouds rolled over the horizon, blotting out all but the brightest stars. A low rumble of thunder was heard every few minutes or so and the whole landscape seemed to tremble.

“Dad used to tell us that thunder’s actually just monsters growling at each other,” Sam said quietly as he peered out the window. “They don’t mean no harm, though. It’s a misunderstanding.”

Sometime during the storm, Dean slipped outside and onto the porch. John had already wandered off to bed with a bottle of whiskey in each hand and Sam was content to flip through the journal his father kept during the War. It was full of hastily drawn pictures and the occasional gruesome account of an amputation. Neither seemed to notice Dean’s absence.

Curiosity drove Castiel out of the house, where he found the boy perched on the wooden railing that lined the porch, gazing out at the horizon. Already sensing his unhappiness, Castiel settled himself beside Dean. Now that he no longer needed his crutches to get by, the motion came easily.

Beyond them, lightning split open the sky. The crack that subsequently rippled through the air did not even cause Dean to flinch. He remained as he was, absinthian eyes fixed sorrowfully on some place Castiel could not see. 

“My mother died two years ago today,” said Dean.

Castiel said nothing. He’d learned by now that silence was often what the boy needed, just the knowledge that there was someone else listening, and that he was being heard. Inside, however, Cas felt a deep sadness take root. As it was with all those he loved ( _How strange,_ he had thought at the time, _that I could love two boys as sincerely as I do my own kin_ ), Castiel had a habit of taking on another’s pain if they felt it strong enough. Dean was no exception.

“We woke up to the smoke,” Dean continued after a moment. “Quantrill’s Raiders showed up sometime before dawn and just started tearing everything apart. I don’t know when the fires started; guess it doesn’t matter. The house was fine one minute and all gone up in flames the next. Dad had left earlier with a few other men to try and stop them so there was no one else to see but us – Sammy, Ma, and me.”

Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me this if it hurts you.”

Dean turned to him tearfully, and though he said no words, Castiel could easily hear what he wanted to say: _I don’t have anyone else to tell it to._

Rain had started to fall, knocking hard on the roof, causing everything around them to shimmer. Dean reached out and caught a few drops in his palm, tilting it this way and that to watch the water swim over his fingertips and down into the dirt below. He began again.

“By the time we got downstairs, the fire had gotten half the house. I remember the smoke, you know, trying not to breathe it in. And we had Sammy covered up in a blanket. When Dad burst in – probably saw the flames from across town - the walls were about ready to fall down. I remember my mother, she…she made me put my arms around Sam and pushed us towards the door. And then one of the beams from the second floor just crashed down between us and I couldn’t see her anymore. Dad told me to run outside as fast as I could, that they’d be right there.”

Dean wiped the tears from his face and let out a shuddering breath. “It was too late,” Castiel murmured, finishing the story for him.

“Yeah,” Dean replied dully. “He couldn’t get her out.”

Castiel, for all his supposed wisdom, couldn’t think of a single thing to do. The rain continued to pour and thunder rattled the windowpanes, but not a sound passed between them for a long time.

“I miss her so much I can hardly stand it,” Dean whispered.

“That’s how it is for the ones we love,” Castiel explained sadly. “We make room for them in our hearts. And hearts, you know, are very vulnerable things.”

“I wish I couldn’t feel anything at all sometimes.”

Castiel touched his arm again, forced him to look up. “Never fault yourself for feeling, Dean. It’s a wonderful gift you have. I see how you look after Sam, how you care about him. It’s beautiful, all the love you carry in your heart. Not many people are capable of that.”

“Probably because they know better,” Dean muttered. “Hurts too much.”

“True,” said Cas. “But you’re stronger than them. You’ll make it through. And in the end, you’ll look back on a life lived with and through love. There is no greater joy than that. At least, that’s what I like to believe.”

When Castiel reflected on this exchange, as he often did in the late night hours when sleep evaded him and not even the profound silence of the plains could offer comfort, he wondered if this was the moment he should have recognized the shift in their relationship. He had been so naïve then. So entirely unaware.

But in the moment, when Dean slowly traversed the space between them and pushed himself into Castiel’s arms, the warning bells did not so much as whisper in his mind. It was the first embrace they’d ever shared, and Castiel was bewildered. But nothing more. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmured against his shoulder. Castiel wondered how long it had been since someone wrapped their arms around this boy, gave him any reason to believe he was cherished and cared for.

And then he found himself returning the embrace, during which a fierce protectiveness surged through him, as powerful and electric as the storm that raged beyond. He was needed, Cas knew this now; and for the first time in his life he felt a true purpose, the very same one he’d been wishing for since childhood.

“You’re welcome, Dean,” he heard himself whisper, three words pressed into the mess of blonde hair that perpetually smelled of hay and kindling. In response, Dean shifted closer, held tighter, and breathed.

It was not until the thunder finally quieted and the rain receded to a gentle mist, that the two figures in the shadow of the Winchester house at last let each other go. 

* * *

While Castiel busied himself with the cleaning he very apparently did not need to do (he always kept a clean home; he simply could not trust himself to speak intelligently or appropriately at a moment like this), Dean stood in the middle of the kitchen, turning his hat over and over in his hands.

“So,” he said. “Sheriff, huh?”

Castiel’s eyes fell to the five-pointed badge pinned on his own shirt. “More of a Marshall, really. Did Anna mention it to you?”

Dean nodded. “Didn’t even have to ask. When the post forwarded my letter to her address, she replied right away. Bragged about you,” he added with a small smile.

Castiel huffed out a laugh and a quiet “of course she did” before turning back to survey the area for a potentially untidy spot to busy himself with. But seconds later, Dean’s voice came again, less certain this time: “This is a nice house.”

“It’s rather small,” Cas admitted. “But a good home, nonetheless. You cannot ask for much more out here.”

“Where is ‘here’ anyhow?” said Dean. “Impala and I had to ride for ages just to get through Texas. When your sister said you’d gone West, I didn’t realize…" 

Castiel straightened himself and fixed Dean with what he hoped was an easy smile. “Los Huesos is about a third of the way into New Mexico. Could have been worse, I suppose. I suspect if I’d moved to California you’d have abandoned the journey altogether.”

“No,” Dean said. “I really wouldn’t have.”

Castiel’s mouth fell open, and he felt the very distinctive loss of breath that had become a trademark reaction to so much as a mention of Dean Winchester. And the silence dragged on and on. Finally, when he convinced himself that he was being utterly ridiculous, Cas cleared his throat and forced himself to get to the reason Dean had come here in the first place: John. 

“I would like,” Castiel began, picking his words with care, “to hear of your life these past several years, and I would like to share mine with you. But—”

“Great!” Dean said quickly, not bothering to listen to the rest as he made to sit at the kitchen table.

“—but only after we discuss the reason you’re here.”

Dean swept a hand over his eyes and didn’t reply for some time. When he did, it was muffled against his palm. “You’d think after a few weeks on the road, I’d have gotten some decent thoughts together on the matter.”

After lighting several candles to illuminate the darkened house, Castiel joined him at the table. “You could begin with what happened. I’m not asking you for an explanation. I know you don’t have one. It’s just…your letter, Dean, it worried me. You didn’t sound like yourself.”

“How would you know what I sound like now?” Dean muttered. It was not said cruelly. In fact, there was very little intent behind it at all. But that was what stung the most. 

“Forgive me,” said Castiel. “I only meant that I was concerned.”

“I know.”

Outside, the winter wind whistled high and thin. New Mexico was desolate this time of year; nothing but dry, cracked dirt and leafless shrubs. Even the distant mountains looked lonesome beneath the evening stars. Dean’s birthday was not too far gone by, Castiel realized. That would make him twenty-one. He must’ve spent most of the days after it on horseback, alone with his thoughts. It couldn’t have been a happy journey, not with the world so bleak and quiet. 

“There isn’t much of a story to tell,” Dean sighed, drawing Castiel out of his thoughts. “He just left. Woke up one morning and he was gone. And it’s not like I’d hidden the liquor again or he’d had another screaming match with Sammy. Out of the blue, no reason whatsoever, he just took off. Haven’t heard anything since.”

Castiel shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like John.”

“Yeah, well, he may have been distant when you were still around, but since then it’s like he lived in another place altogether, somewhere Sammy and I couldn’t go,” Dean replied bitterly.

“And you alerted the authorities?" 

Dean scoffed. “Course I did. Doesn’t mean they found him. Dad wanted to disappear, and you of all people should know he’d do a damn good job of it.”

Castiel blinked at the sound of Dean swearing. It simply hadn’t happened when he was younger. For a moment, he pictured John and all his gusto during the War, cursing often and with great vigor. As much as he’d loved his old friend, Castiel hoped with all his heart that Dean would not become a mirror of that man.

“I don’t mean to sound cruel,” Castiel said once he’d processed all that Dean had to say, “but I’m still not certain why you’ve come to me. What can I do?”

Dean swallowed. “I ain’t asking you for help.”

“Then what is it you want?”

They regarded each other across the table, Castiel’s gaze even and steady, the most it had been since Dean’s arrival. The younger man swore again. 

“I’m running,” he said. A laugh escaped him, pained. “I don’t know what to do and I’m running scared. Dad left behind a business, you know. Mending saddles and taking care of horses wasn’t too glamorous, but it was still work. And the pay was steady.”

Dean ran his hands through his hair, leaned back in the chair. “But, hell, I haven’t been home for more than a few months at a time since I was eighteen. And Sam doesn’t know shit about taking care of horses. Too busy studying so he can be a Harvard man like yourself.”

Castiel frowned. “You don’t want to take John’s place?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Dean admitted. “But if I don’t, Sam’s not gonna have enough money to go off to school. The Cattle Trails pay enough for one, but not two boys and a college education on top of it all.”

“You’ve been working the Trails?”

“All the way from Kansas to Wyoming. Lived at home during the off-season.” 

Castiel sat back in his chair, thinking. Herding cattle across the West was every cowboy’s fantasy, a way to see the world without having to pay for it. Just a couple months of looking after Longhorns and sleeping under the stars. One such Trail swept right past Los Huesos. All this time, Dean might have been closer than he’d thought.

“So you’d rather be herding cattle than settled in Lawrence?” Castiel said finally.

Dean threw his hands in the air. “Like I said, I don’t know. At first, I took the cowboy route ‘cause I thought it’d be nice to get out of Kansas. I mean, I missed Sammy more than I could say. But it was good to be on my own. Felt like I was living life for the first time.”

Castiel met his weary gaze and nodded. Immediately, Dean began to breathe easier, as if he’d been waiting all this time for that small gesture of approval.

“Well,” said Castiel, mind made up before he even realized there’d been something to consider. “It sounds like you need time to think.”

“You offering a place to do it?”

“I suppose I am,” Castiel replied, not entirely believing of the words himself. Could he really be so quick to lay down his defenses? And for what - another opportunity to be wounded?

 _Or a second chance_ , a small part of him suggested.

Meanwhile, Dean chewed on his lower lip in quiet contemplation, eyes wandering everywhere but Castiel’s face. Then he drew in a deep breath through his nose, and on the exhale, sighed: “Okay.”

Sitting there in the glow of the candlelight, watching his memories come to life before him, Castiel thought perhaps he ought to exercise more caution. Once burned, so it went. But as it was, with Dean smiling shyly at him, fingers twisting round the brim of his hat, Castiel couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

* * *

In the years following Castiel’s departure from the Winchester ranch, life trudged on dutifully and without much fanfare. He accepted a position at a sizable law firm in Boston, where his only real enjoyment came from the frequent visits of his sister, who had recently begun teaching at a girl’s preparatory school in the city. He wrote often to John both to ensure he was taking care of himself and his boys, and to glean what information he could about Sam and Dean.

“I feel as though I’ve lost two brothers,” Castiel told Anna one morning. He’d received yet another paltry response from John, barely ten lines in all, and had thrown the letter moodily into his sister’s lap.

Anna ignored the gesture (which was the closest Castiel had ever gotten to a tantrum in his life) and continued drawing geometric patterns on the frosted windowpane. They were stuck inside Castiel’s townhouse, watching the first winter’s snow drift delicately over the city.

“They aren’t your responsibility, you know,” she said.

Castiel shook his head. “With their father the way he is, I’m inclined to believe they are. Their grandparents did right by them during the War, but at their age, I don’t suspect they can travel quite so frequently. Sam and Dean are on their own.”

“How old are they now?” Anna asked. She had finally begun to peruse John’s letter, fingers tracing the elegant lines of his script. Even with half his mind absent, the man still managed a degree of penmanship that surpassed any Castiel had seen before.

“Dean will be fifteen in January, I believe. Which makes Sam ten.”

“Fifteen is a dependable age,” Anna said reasonably. “And you yourself told me how capable Dean was of caring for his brother. You worry too much, Castiel.”

When he said nothing in reply, Anna rose from her perch on the window seat and took Castiel’s hands in her own. He avoided her searching gaze, something that never failed to unnerve him. She had an aptitude for discovering the secret thoughts of just about anyone and her brother was no exception.

“You should focus on taking care of yourself,” she said softly. “You’ve been so listless in your own life lately, that I’m afraid you’re looking for trouble in somebody else’s.”

Anna had been right, of course. She usually was. But even so, Castiel could not let go of the notion that he’d left behind something incredibly important in Kansas, and no amount of fond reminiscing or letters from John could bring it back to him.

But in the spring of the fourth year, a new letter arrived, written in a hand far less elegant than John’s but still as achingly familiar. A letter asking just when exactly Castiel planned on visiting them all again.

* * *

The days since Dean’s arrival had been spent in polite conversation and what Castiel hoped was companionable silence. He retreated to his office in town during the day while Dean busied himself with Impala and Castiel’s beloved mare, Grace in the Wilderness. In the evening, they had supper together and Cas was reminded constantly of the first few silent weeks he spent in Lawrence after the War.

He realized, then, that the only solution was the tried and true one he’d crafted those many years ago. Which is how he found himself nearly upending his bookshelf in an attempt to uncover the works of an author he knew Dean loved dearly.

“The hell are you doing?” Dean asked, having appeared in the doorway after Castiel rescued the bookshelf from tipping over by slamming it back into the wall of his bedroom.

“Did you ever have a chance to read more of Jules Verne’s books?” Castiel asked casually as he wrestled a copy of _War and Peace_ out of the way. He’d stacked the poor wooden thing to excess, to the point where three rows of books were housed on each shelf.

Dean crossed his arms. “Cattle Trails ain’t exactly a prime place for reading.”

“Oh, good,” Castiel replied. “Because I have several of them for you now.” At that moment, he triumphantly retracted _Around the World in Eighty Days._  

“You must’ve had a whole trunk full of these things moving out here,” Dean said, at last crossing the threshold to join Cas in front of the bookshelf. He ran his fingers along the spines appreciatively. “You got anything else like Verne?”

Castiel gingerly slipped his hand into the second shelf and pulled out his prized possession, his original copy of _Frankenstein,_ wrapped delicately in a plain blue cloth.

“It was my favorite when I was young,” he said. “Terrifying, though. I didn’t sleep for several nights after I’d finished.”

Dean smirked. “I ain’t afraid of ghosts.”

“Ghosts have nothing to do with it,” Castiel said, pitching his voice low in an attempt to sound intimidating. Dean merely laughed. It was a refreshing thing to hear.

“Hey,” Dean said after a moment of quietly tracing the title of the book with his index finger. “You want to have a drink or two at the saloon tonight?”

Castiel cradled the Verne novel to his chest, a shield. “I’m not one for drinking, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” said Dean. His eyes fell to the floor.

“But I would hate for you to drink alone,” Cas said quickly. “And I have an unopened bottle somewhere in the kitchen. You’re welcome to it, if you like.” 

“And you’ll keep me company?”

The sudden change in Dean unnerved Castiel. He had been content to keep to himself the past several days, and now he was actively looking for companionship. But perhaps Castiel’s reaching out with the books had been more effective than he’d thought. Perhaps Dean had only needed a push.

“Of course I will,” Castiel replied with a smile. “But only if you regale me with a few of your cowboy tales.”

Dean laughed again ( _The sweetest sound!_ Castiel thought; he’d forgotten just how wonderful it was) and rose to his feet. “Only if you think you can handle them.”

“I’m no stranger to the scandalous, Dean Winchester,” said Castiel with a smirk. “You’ll find no blushing listener here.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a few stories for me as well.”

“Perhaps,” said Castiel, feeling the warmth of a flush rising in his cheeks. “Perhaps.”

* * *

Castiel found himself in Kansas just three weeks following the receipt of Dean’s letter. As the carriage pulled up on the street he’d come to love so dearly, his heart began to pound. He saw a door opening, two figures descending down the porch steps, a third lingering by the railing.

“Cas!”

Like he had been four years back, Sam was the first to the gate. He was twelve now and so much taller than Castiel had expected, with a mess of dark hair hanging in front of his eyes. He threw his arms around Castiel without preamble. 

“What took you so long to come see us again?” he asked, face buried in Castiel’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Cas said honestly. “I truly don’t know.”

And then someone was grabbing on to his arm, chuckling soft and low, saying, “Give somebody else a turn, Sammy.”

By the time Castiel looked up, Dean was already pushing into his arms. They were the same height now, though he still had more breadth than Dean, and Cas began to wonder what else about him would be different now that he’d travelled halfway through his adolescence. They would certainly have plenty of things to discuss, plenty of stories to share.

“I can hear you thinking,” Dean teased, at last releasing Castiel from his embrace. “Good to see you haven’t changed _too_ much.”

“Not nearly as much as you have,” Cas said fondly, stepping back to take the sight of the Winchester boys in fully.

His eyes inevitably fell on Dean. His freckles were less pronounced than they had been in his childhood, but the dusting across his nose and forehead still gave him the wisp of youthfulness that would undoubtedly serve him even into his later years. His skin had tanned some, no doubt from working on the ranch all day, and his hair had grown even lighter from spending so much time beneath the sun.

“You alright?” Dean asked, breaking Castiel from his observations. “You’re doing that squinty thing Sammy always used to tease you about.”

“I’m wonderful,” Cas assured him. “It’s just rather overwhelming, seeing you all again after so long.”

Dean embraced him once more. “I knew I should have written sooner,” he muttered.

“I’m frankly just glad you wrote at all,” Castiel replied.

Over Dean’s shoulder, he spotted John watching them from the porch. He held one hand up in greeting, which Castiel returned. He had a feeling it was the most genial they were going to get.

Just before Dean pulled away, Castiel caught a whiff of something that brought his memories to life. Hay and kindling. The smell of his hair. This, he was strangely pleased to discover. _Not everything must change,_ Castiel told himself by way of explanation. Still, it didn’t quite soothe the nameless question that floated quietly in the back of his mind.

Before he could give more thought to the matter, he was being tugged towards the house by two eager hands, and all want of explanation left his conscious.

Later that evening, Dean knocked at the door of Castiel’s guest room and invited him to take a walk out by the corral, an offer the older man was glad to accept. They wandered aimlessly through the dark, peering out at the large shapes grazing in the moonlight.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Dean explained, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“If they required our introduction to take place under the cover of darkness, I think I ought to be concerned,” Castiel teased.

Dean snorted. “Don’t worry. She only bites sometimes.”

As it turned out, the someone Dean was referring to was actually a horse. As soon as they appeared at the gate, she galloped towards them, rearing her head back with the unbridled independence of a young filly. It was immediately apparent that she adored Dean.

“This here’s Impala,” Dean said proudly, running his fingers down her snout. “And she’s all mine.” 

“She’s beautiful,” Castiel sighed.

And she was. Her black coat rippled and shimmered in the light of the moon. She was strong and tall, much like the stallion who’d sired her, the very same one Dean had ridden four years ago in the lazy days of summer. But it was her eyes that truly enamored Castiel. Those eyes spoke of such depth, such feeling, he had no difficulty imagining she was the perfect steed for Dean.

“You can touch her if you want,” Dean told him. “She won’t mind as long as I’m around.”

Castiel lifted his hand tentatively. “If I lose a finger tonight, there’ll be no reparation for our friendship,” he warned.

“Good thing I’m a man of my word then,” said Dean.

Castiel was thrown off for a brief moment by the mention of Dean as a man. No matter how true it was, he could not shake the strangeness of it, the newness. For the second time that day, he found himself wondering just how much he still knew of the young boy who’d wept in his arms that stormy August night.

“Don’t overthink it,” Dean groaned. “Just reach your hand out and give her a pet.”

Castiel blinked and did as he was instructed, allowing his hand to hover over Impala’s muzzle until the horse lifted her head to meet him. She was soft and warm beneath his palm.

“Most nights we put them in the stables,” Dean said as Castiel continued to stroke Impala. “But whenever the moon is bright like this, Impala puts up a fuss like I’ve never seen before. She’s got Mustang in her, is why, and a big old wild streak to prove it. And Lord knows I haven’t got the fortitude to deny her." 

“Perhaps I ought to let your father know you’re in love with a horse,” Castiel chuckled. He scratched down Impala’s neck, relishing the feeling of life exuding from beneath her coat.

Dean sighed dramatically. “Only woman I’ll ever love.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

Silence, then: “Love don’t have to be confined like that.”

Castiel tried to peer at Dean through the dark to gauge his expression, but even the light of the moon could not reveal it. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said, hoping for some explanation.

Dean offered him none. “I’m talking nonsense,” he said. “Just tired is all. I think we ought to head back inside.”

And though Castiel didn’t believe a word of it, he let himself be lead back to the lights of the Winchester ranch, wondering just what Dean had meant. 

* * *

The whisky bottle on the table felt more like a challenge than a friendly addition to their twosome. Castiel eyed it warily while Dean settled himself into his chair, glass in hand.

“So all this about you not drinking,” he said casually. “There a story behind that?”

Castiel swallowed. “One might argue there’s a story behind everything.”

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I was merely hoping we could discuss happier things tonight,” Cas explained. “Fair?”

Dean nodded and raised his glass. “Fair. Now fill her up.”

While John had been something of an intensely emotional drunk, Dean showed almost no shift in his personality with the addition of liquor. The only difference Castiel could see was his willingness to speak loudly and far more frequently than he was apt to do in his everyday life.

Fortunately for Castiel, who had not ceased his curiosities over Dean’s activities of the last six years, this meant he would receive a brief account of their time apart unsolicited, beginning with Dean’s first attempt at cattle wrangling. 

“Like I said a few nights ago, I just had to get out. See the world. Or at least the part of the world that happened to be on the Goodnight-Loving trail,” Dean was saying. He’d propped his feet up on the table and Cas hadn’t the heart to shove them off just yet. “I thought Dad would be furious, but he just didn’t have it in him anymore. Probably helped that I’d only be gone a few months at a time, but he didn’t even put up a fight. Sam was more upset than he was.”

“You and Sam are still close?”

Dean whistled. “Too close. People get the wrong idea about us sometimes, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do anything for that kid.” He paused and stared down at the table. “Well, shit. I s’pose I just made up my mind about going home.” 

“A decision made while drinking is not a true decision,” Castiel told him. “Besides, if you chose to follow a different path for yourself, I can’t imagine Sam would fault you for it. You forget that he also knows what it is to be selfless.”

“Trust me, I could never forget,” said Dean. “Saint Sam.”

“Anyway,” Castiel said gently. “You were saying something about the Goodnight-Loving trail?”

“First one I ever worked. Rode all the way up to Wyoming that year.” Dean smiled. “Beautiful country up there. Thought about getting ‘lost’ plenty of times, just me and Impala roaming over one of those big, sprawling mountains on our own.”

“Did you?" 

“No,” Dean sighed. “We had a job to do. But it was a nice dream.”

When the candle wax had begun to melt dangerously close to the table, Castiel heard himself ask, out of the blue: “You seeing anyone?”

Dean looked at him for a moment, an unreadable expression in his eyes, before shrugging. “Not right now, though I had me a girl for a while. Kindest woman I ever met. Prettiest, too. But it’s hard keeping something like that alive when you’re gone three months at a time, so we ended things on a high note. Last I heard, she was married with a kid on the way.” 

“What was her name?”

“Lisa,” Dean replied with a smile. “Nothing but good memories there. What about you?”

Castiel looked down at his hands. He should have seen the question coming. He never should have brought the subject up in the first place. “It’s not a happy story, Dean,” he said.

Dean straightened himself, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“Believe me, I do not think you wish to hear it.”

“Well, I do,” said Dean. “You’ve been sitting here listening to me talk for over an hour now. Let me return the favor.” When Castiel said nothing, he added, “I know I don’t have a right to hear it, but as a friend I’d like to listen.”

It took several seconds of silence, and Castiel visibly bracing himself, for the story to begin. “I had a wife and child once,” he said softly, tracing the place around his finger where a gold band used to rest.

“Once?” 

Castiel looked down. “Amelia was a colleague of my sister’s. They both taught at a girl’s school in Boston. We met at a party for the headmistress one evening and could not seem to stop talking no matter how many times other guests tried to engage us. We courted and were married by the end of the year. We had a daughter by the next.” 

Dean’s voice came softly. “Were you happy?”

“Oh, yes,” said Castiel. He ran his fingers along the edge of the table. It felt strange to discuss this, having been quiet about it all these years, but perhaps it was something that needed to be done. “Amelia brought out the very best in me. I loved her very much. And we were a good match, I think. Our partnership, had it lasted, would have undoubtedly been a successful one.”

“So what happened?”

Castiel took a long, steady breath. “Consumption took them from me. My daughter, Claire…she was barely more than an infant at the time. Amelia followed after. It happened so quickly, yet somehow I was spared.”

He could feel Dean’s eyes on him, remorseful. “I’m sorry, Cas. I didn’t—” 

“Of course not,” said Castiel. He smiled sadly. “Truth be told, you’re the first person to hear about it in…quite some time.”

“Is that why you came out West?”

“It was my last resort, really. I fell deep into the drink after their deaths. Whole days and nights slipped by without my notice. I stopped working. My life began to unravel before my eyes.” Castiel took a long, slow breath. He hadn’t intended to take the story this far. It would’ve been easy to leave out his struggle with drinking. But once the words began, they fell too effortlessly to hold back. “It was only by the encouragement and affection of my sister that I was able to see the change that needed to be made. Los Huesos became my fresh start, my respite. I knew there were plenty of positions for lawmen, so I volunteered,” Castiel continued. “My understanding of the law from my degree expedited the process. I trained in firearms and enforcement and then I suddenly found myself halfway across the country in a small town in the middle of nowhere. But it was exactly what I needed. I will always hold that to be true.”

After several seconds of silence had passed, Castiel began to worry that he’d said too much, irreparably changed Dean’s opinion of him. He muttered, “Say something, please.”

Dean began to reach towards Castiel, but seemed to think better of it and dropped his hand into his lap again. “I don’t know what else there is to say but that I’m sorry. And that I’m glad you’re alright now.”

“You don’t think less of me for it?”

Dean’s eyebrows swept together. “You were in pain. Then you did something to take it away for a while. Believe me, I know what that’s like.”

Cas still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. The old familiar feeling of shame had returned to him, shoved conveniently away during his solitude in Los Huesos. Nobody here knew of his mistakes.

“What matters is that you turned yourself around,” Dean said, and this time he did come to rest his hand over Castiel’s. “And I think that makes you a better man than half the ones I’ve known. A stronger one, too.”

Castiel looked up, then, and when he saw the gentle smile on Dean’s lips, his mouth formed the same. “I don’t quite know if you realize how much that means to me, Dean.”

“I think I have an idea,” Dean replied. He was silent for a time, tracing his fingertips round the rim of his glass, until finally he added, “You know, Cas, I understand that you think you’ve found some sort of peace out here. But that’s not all I see." 

“Oh?”

Dean sighed. “This place…you’ve exiled yourself here. Seems to me you’re trying to do some form of penance. But you don’t deserve to be punished, Cas. Amelia and Claire didn’t die because of something you did.”

Castiel shook his head. “You and I both know I have plenty of mistakes to be absolved from my ledger.”

“That’s your problem,” Dean said, but not unkindly. “You regret just about everything you’ve ever done and that ain’t no way to live a life. You said something like that to me once.”

“I suppose I did,” Castiel murmured. “You know, you’re very wise for one so young.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not as young as you always seem to think I am. You weren’t too much older than I am now when you went off to fight the Confederates. And I’m betting you didn’t feel young then, did you?”

“You do present a viable argument,” said Castiel.

“Damn straight. Should be me going off to law school,” Dean said, voice rich with sarcasm.

Cas chuckled. “One day I’ll cast off my regret, and one day you’ll realize you have more to offer than you think.”

“I guess we’ll both be waiting a damn long time then.”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’d wager we both have a few surprises left in store for us.”

“I missed you,” Dean said suddenly. The softness in his gaze warmed Castiel down to his very bones. “Might as well get that out of the way right now so I can blame it on the whisky later.”

“Dean,” Cas replied fondly. “You don’t need to make excuses. I’ve missed you as well.”

“Well, good,” said Dean.

Cas grinned. “Good.” 

They talked through much of the night, and shared in comfortable silence for the rest of it. Dean capped off the whisky, and they soon found themselves sprawled on the porch outside, gazing at the stars and, once or twice, each other. In those brief moments when their eyes met, Castiel found himself entirely oblivious to the chill of the air.

Dean shared stories from his time on the Cattle Trails. Half-drunk and giggling, he regaled Cas with the time he and his partner, Benny, had accidentally driven their herd right into the middle of another. The other cattle wranglers had only spoken in thick, indecipherable Spanish, and Benny had attempted to sort things out with them in a strange combination of English, French, and hand signals nobody could ever have hoped to translate. In the end, the cattle had gotten sorted after two long days of work and they’d all wound up having supper together. Somehow, Dean said with a smile, it still managed to be one of the most companionable meals he’d ever shared.

For his part, Castiel talked about life on the frontier. The way the sky seemed clearer than it ever did back East. The sense of being alone, but never quite feeling lonely. The coyotes howling. Jackrabbits and rattle snakes slipping out from the underbrush. The glory of a summer sunset, when the whole world seemed to catch aflame.

The night passed by quickly on the wings of their smiles and easy laughter. Soon enough, the sky had become a wash of pale pink and lavender, edging towards the first blue light of dawn. The stars, one by one, were beginning to fade.

Castiel smiled as his gaze slid towards Dean, who had tipped his head back to breathe in the morning air, empty bottle of whisky dangling from his fingers.

“I have a confession,” Cas announced.

“Do I look like a preacher to you?”

“Fine,” Castiel said lightly. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

Dean nudged him with his elbow. “Oh, come on. Don’t pout. Tell me.”

“I’m fairly certain I spoke more this evening than I have in half a year,” said Castiel. He plucked at a splinter on the porch steps, careful not to meet Dean’s eyes. Somewhere, a morning bird was calling, heralding the coming of a new day. 

“Can I confess something to you, then?” asked Dean. 

“Of course.”

“If that’s the case, Cas,” he began, “then I’m really damn glad you said it all to me.” 

They looked at each other, then, as the sun first appeared on the horizon, and Castiel knew at once that love was in his heart again. And this was the time, he knew, he could not conceal it. Out here, in the miles and miles of wide open space, there was nowhere for him to hide.

* * *

When April came to the Winchester ranch, and the skies were a perpetual robin’s egg blue, Castiel found himself idling with Dean outside Impala’s corral, watching her trot in circles amongst the other horses.

“She’s a showoff,” Dean chuckled.

“Just like her rider,” Castiel said dryly.

They had grown accustomed to teasing each other lately. Castiel knew not why, but every interaction erred towards a playful joke, a bump of the shoulder, ruffled hair and furtive winks. Some might say they were behaving foolishly, and yet even Castiel could not bring himself to stop. This was what it was to be a friend, he thought. This was what it was to have fun. And after four years of routine, he needed that now more than ever.

“You think I’m all talk?” Dean asked, eyes already alit with the suggestion of a challenge.

Castiel shrugged. “I think you exhibit what you do well and carefully ignore the aspects of your horsemanship that fall below the standards you’ve set for yourself.” 

“Oh really? And what might one of those aspects be?”

“Well,” said Cas, “I, for one, have never seen you win a race.”

It was no surprise that they’d wound up two miles out of town, preparing for a quick sprint through a stretch of open grass to prove whether or not Dean deserved to boast as much as he did. Castiel already felt that he was at a disadvantage, being on an unfamiliar horse while Dean had his precious Impala. But he supposed he had started the entire thing to begin with, so he would have to accept his lot.

“Alright,” said Dean. “It’s a straight shot to the other side of the field. First one there wins. You ready?" 

“No,” Castiel muttered. 

“Go!” Dean shouted, and they were off.

As it turned out, Castiel’s horse was no amateur. He was smaller than Impala, but made up for might in speed. He kept his pace neck-in-neck with the other horse and seemed to listen well enough to the slight shift in Castiel’s grip on the reins, even when Castiel himself lacked the experience to know if he was being clear enough in his directions.

They tore through the field, kicking up dirt in their wake. Dean whooped and hollered like some wild creature, one hand raised in the air, an expression of absolute joy on his face. Castiel envisioned him somewhere out West, a true gunslinger like the folktales said. It wasn’t too difficult of an image to dream up.

In the end, Impala was too great an adversary for Castiel’s stallion. She and her rider galloped across the established finish line and trotted around proudly as they waited for Castiel to join them. But just as he rode up, already braced for a victory speech, a dove burst out of a thicket nearby, spooking Impala.

The horse reared up, whinnying loud and shrill, and the motion was too sudden for Dean to recover. He fell from the horse right into the grass, coughing and sputtering, and Castiel felt laughter bubble up out of him before he could think to suppress it. 

“The prideful will always receive their dues,” Castiel said triumphantly as he dismounted from his horse. “Isn’t that right, Dean?”

But Dean did not reply. In fact, he had not moved since his fall to the ground.

“Dean?” Castiel asked again, feeling panic begin to sweep through him. He raced to Dean’s side and flipped him onto his back, fearing the worst. “Dean, wake up! No, no, no, Dean you have to wake up. Can you hear me? Are you listening to me, Dean? Wake up!”

It was not until Castiel was certain he himself was going to pass out with worry that Dean erupted into hysterical laughter, nearly curling in on himself with the force of his giggling. “Your face,” he wheezed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Castiel gazed down at him, utterly stunned. Then, in a moment of pure, childish fury, he pounced. Dean was clearly not expecting to be physically assaulted and was wholly unprepared for the wrestling match that ensued. They rolled across the dirt, growling and swearing, as Castiel scolded Dean through his grit teeth. 

Eventually, he managed to pin Dean to the ground, where they remained, breathing hard against each other. “Apologize,” Castiel ordered.

“Fine,” Dean gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Castiel nodded, suddenly feeling entirely exhausted by the whole ordeal. “You’re forgiven,” he said, then collapsed against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean laughed. “You put up a good fight.”

“I grew up with five male cousins,” Castiel muttered. “Skill in battle was a necessity.”

They grinned at each other, and it was only when their smiles began to fade that they realized the position they were in. Neither moved for a moment, both electing instead to gaze at one another, as if the best course of action somehow lay revealed in each other’s eyes.

Impala’s aggravated whinny scattered them apart, Castiel rolling off to the side and Dean scrambling backwards towards his horse. They stood up quickly and dusted off their clothes, not daring to look at each other.

“We should be getting back,” Castiel said to the ground beneath him. 

Dean muttered something that sounded like agreement. That was the last they spoke for the rest of the day, but Castiel felt the lingering thrills of Dean’s touch far into the evening, and found he was too upset to question why.

* * *

As the weeks passed, Dean and Castiel found it difficult not to be in one another’s presence. When Cas wasn’t tending to his rather nonexistent duties in town, they were often found riding together through the foothills in blatant protest to the cold of winter.

“I feel like an explorer out here,” Dean said one afternoon as they looked out over Los Huesos and the endless wilderness beyond. “Like no one’s ever seen this before and I’m discovering it for the first time.”

Castiel smiled. “That’s one thing I love dearly about this place. Even though more towns crop up every summer, it still appears to remain untouched. Mankind cannot tarnish it." 

Though his duties as Sheriff were few and far between in a land so devoid of people, Castiel felt a great sense of protectiveness over the county. Crimes were not commonplace, though he suspected they someday might be when the fabled outlaws of the even farther West wised up to the opportunities they could have here. Most disputes took place in the form of land and horse trading, as it was.

Even so, Castiel thought himself a guardian of this place, watchful and distant. It was a position he’d been honored to have these past few years.

Beneath him, Grace in the Wilderness gave an impatient snort. Though she was a mare known for her gentleness, Grace was nothing but forceful in expressing her opinions, most of which were of the decidedly contrary variety.

“Sounds like Grace is ready to move on,” Dean chuckled, reaching down to drag his knuckles across her muzzle.

And so they did.

* * *

After the day of the race, Dean and Castiel saw fit to avoid one another as much as possible. Dean worked resolutely at mending saddles and bridles while Cas spent his days indoors with Sam, reading though never quite taking in the words on the page. Even as he continued to devote time to deciphering whatever strange shroud had descended upon their friendship, Castiel was no closer to understanding than he had been days before.

In later years, he would come to realize that his skill at denying what he felt in his heart was too great to allow himself any semblance of revelation. In essence, Castiel had locked himself out of the solution and, in so doing, had doomed them both to the events of the following day.

When they woke to rolling storm clouds in the morning, the whole household seemed to brace themselves, though not everyone quite knew what for. Something was going to happen, that much was clear. Rain was always the harbinger of change.

“We’ve got to get the horses inside,” Dean said quickly as he shoved his feet into his boots. “Cas, can you help?”

It was the first time they’d addressed one another since the race, but Castiel supposed now was not the time to dwell on it. There was work to be done.

They charged outside as the low rumbling of thunder began sounding in the distance, and started the long and painful process of gathering the four horses into the stables. The air was thick with mist and the static electricity of the coming lightning. As he led a dappled mare to shelter, Castiel couldn’t help but compare the storm to the one he’d witnessed with Dean four years prior. The memory was what encouraged him to speak.

“I suppose we ought to start speaking to each other again,” he called over the blowing of the wind.

Dean looked back at him, brows drawn together.

“Feels as though we’ve been fighting and I don’t know what for,” Castiel continued. “All I know is that I enjoy your company and that I’ve missed it terribly these past few days.”

They made it to the stable and, under the cover of the wooden roof, Dean smiled at him. “Okay, then,” he said. “We can start by getting back to the house before the whole sky falls down on us.”

Castiel nodded and, together, they stepped out from beneath the shelter. However, the moment they did, the clouds burst open and rain fell heavily on the both of them. They stumbled and laughed and, realizing that a sprint for the house was not one either of them was in a position to make now that they were soaked and muddy, turned back to the stable. 

They tripped over the hay and each other until they found themselves tucked back towards the opposite wall, far from the din of the storm. Their chuckles petered out into gentle exhalations of breath and sound until Castiel looked up to find Dean gazing at him with eyes half-lidded. He became aware of how painfully close they were, how he could feel Dean’s breath ghosting over his own lips. Castiel could not understand when or how it happened, only that their bodies seemed to have moved of their own accord, drawing closer until their heartbeats thrummed against one another.

Dean’s hands found his shoulders and the hard, pounding of the rain seemed to fade. Castiel could hear nothing but the raggedness of Dean’s breath, could feel nothing but the frantic leaping of his own heart, could see nothing but the brilliant green of Dean’s eyes, searching his.

Their foreheads fell against one another, their noses brushed. Their lips were just centimeters away, open and seeking out the air that neither seemed able to take in. _I could kiss him_. The thought flew across Castiel’s mind before he could stop it. _I could press those lips to mine._

And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. Castiel had never felt so strongly for another person before, and it ached so wholly he thought he might drown in it. How had he not realized it before?

In front of him, Dean appeared to be thinking the same thing. But even as desire raged in both of them, they never did find a way to kiss. There were several instances in which it nearly happened, heads tilting one way, mouths falling open, inviting the other in. But they were never able to come closer than they already were, foreheads pressed together in the dim light of the stable, the world washing away from them. 

“Dean? Cas?” 

The sharp cry of Sam’s voice startled them apart. Castiel leapt backwards as if burned, and the motion of this sent him reeling. Before he plunged into the ground, Dean’s hand found purchase on his shoulder and righted him. He stepped closer, arms already reaching out to grasp at Castiel again.

But Castiel shook his head, ignoring the desperate cries of his own body to reach back, to accept the love of this boy.

“Cas,” Dean started to say, voice breaking. He was too perceptive. He already knew what was happening before him, and still he tried to stop it. Castiel’s heart ached for him.

“I can’t,” Cas whispered. And then he stepped out into the rain.

In the morning, he was gone.

While Anna tried to discover what tragedy had sent her brother fleeing from the Winchester home, Castiel did his best to forget it. He threw himself into his work, taking on more cases than any other lawyer in the firm, to fill every waking moment with something else to occupy his thoughts. It worked for a time.

Though the hours before he fell asleep were always wracked with visions of Dean’s face the moment Castiel turned away from him, the daylight brought more toil, less opportunities to think. His employers were thrilled. Anna could not have been more concerned. 

Finally, to appease her constant questioning, Castiel agreed to join her at a party for her headmistress. It was there that a young woman caught his eye. She was dressed neatly and practically, her long blonde hair swept up to reveal an elegant neck and eyes that held an inviting softness to them. Castiel would later not recall how it was that they began conversation, only that, once they did, they found it nearly impossible to stop.

Amelia Novak became his sole escape from the anxiety that followed him from Lawrence. She was clever and gentle and never pushed for a reply Castiel knew he could not give. 

“I will forgive you your past,” she told him once. “Even if you will not tell me what it is you’ve done. I trust that you have left it all behind.”

He had not. But Castiel’s strength had weakened in those days, so he said nothing and let her think more highly of him than he believed she ought to.

In the end, it did not matter. They were wed in early autumn with the leaves falling down in a rain of orange and gold. Castiel loved the shedding of the trees and imagined himself among them, casting off the weight of what he’d almost done ( _should have done?_ ) to prepare for a new life with Amelia. 

Their marriage, though quiet, was a good one. Amelia was the sun that banished his constant days of winter chill. She made him laugh when necessary and cry when also necessary. And she loved him. That alone was more than enough. 

With the birth of their daughter, Claire, Castiel grew hopeful that the peace he so desperately longed for was in reach. But it was not to be. He knew it the moment Amelia began to cough loudly, violently, one morning. He knew it when the handkerchief she drew away from her trembling lips was splattered in red. He knew it when Claire, so much like her mother, did the same. 

* * *

When a full month had passed since Dean’s arrival in Los Huesos, Castiel received a missive from one of the local lawmen in Alora, a neighboring town, asking him to resolve a land dispute for them.

“Can’t they figure it out on their own?” Dean asked, arms crossed, after Castiel had finished reading the message aloud.

“Why does it bother you?” Castiel asked, a smile spreading across his lips. “Will you really be so miserable without my company for three days?” 

Dean laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself…But if I said ‘yes’, would that convince you to stay?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Castiel sighed. With a smile, he added, “But I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.”

Truth be told, Cas was no more eager about leaving than Dean was to see him go. For one who had grown accustomed to being alone, he had quickly relapsed into a person in constant need of companionship, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since his twenties.

But as he packed what little he needed for the day’s ride to Alora, Castiel found himself wondering if Dean’s reaction spoke of something more than the friendship they’d managed to rekindle during his time in Los Huesos.

On Castiel’s part, the love he’d finally come to terms with had not lessened in any shape or form, but had actually grown to an extent that could scarcely be ignored. And a part of him wanted to refuse the notion of continuing his disregard entirely. For what good could come of suppressing these feelings? His history told him definitively that only pain would be the product of overlooking them much longer.

So, just hours before he was due to leave for Alora, Castiel sought out Dean to take care of this business once and for all. He supposed he ought to feel nervous, but no such emotion rose to stifle him. Instead, a great sense of calm had descended over him, as if he and Fate were at last of one mind, both understanding what it was that had to be done. 

Castiel found him in the pasture, watching Impala and Grace in the Wilderness chase each other through the dry grass. Dean’s eyes were fixed on a point Castiel knew he could not see, some far-off place that could not be found on any map. He often asked what Dean was thinking about during those moments when his contemplation felt more deafening than silent. Dean never replied, choosing instead to smile. 

Castiel thought maybe that was the answer all along.

It took Dean a moment to register Castiel’s presence, but when he did he offered him an easy smile. “You fixing to head out?” 

“Not just yet,” said Cas. His palms were sweating, even though the air around him was cool and dry.

“Had to get one last look at me before you left?” Dean teased. “Believe me, I understand. Beauty this profound ain’t always so easy to find.”

In any other situation, Castiel would have laughed and shoved at Dean’s shoulders. But he was in no state to do so now. He moved as if in a trance, reaching a surprisingly steady hand out to cup Dean’s cheek. He was smiling, he could feel it.

“Cas…” Dean said. His face had begun to flush, skin warming beneath Castiel’s palm.

Thinking that perhaps words were not so necessary now, Castiel began to lean forward, his other hand falling to grasp at Dean’s sleeve. And for a moment, it seemed that everything would go according to plan.

Dean jerked backwards suddenly, tearing himself out of Castiel’s grasp. “No,” he said, looking entirely betrayed. “I swear to God, Castiel, I am not getting into this with you again.”

He stalked off towards the house, shoulders raised and steeled to the wind. Castiel only had a moment to indulge in stunned silence before his legs moved of their own accord and drove him after Dean.

“Dean, please, talk to me,” Castiel pleaded after he’d slammed the door shut behind him.

Dean was pacing angrily across the floorboards, running his hands through his hair. “Not your fault for thinking things were going that way, I’ll admit that,” he said. Castiel saw that he was shaking. “I can’t help myself sometimes around you, you know that? You make it hard to think. Been that way since I can remember.”

“I don’t understand,” Cas said. “I thought…”

“Yeah, I did too,” Dean said with a firm shake of his head. “When I was sixteen and too stupid to realize what would really happen, I thought you and me were gonna have some sort of life together. I thought you’d be brave enough to admit how you felt about me. I thought you’d stay.” 

Castiel dared to move closer to him, but Dean retreated backwards, down the hall. Cas followed, saying, “I was terrified, Dean, can’t you understand that? I was twenty-eight years old, and you – you were a _child_.”

Dean, having found himself in Castiel’s bedroom with no other place to turn, whirled around and snapped, “Sixteen ain’t no child, Cas, and you know it.”

“It was for me!” Castiel shouted. “Part of me wanted so desperately to see you as the man you were growing up to be, but the rest couldn’t banish the sight of you at twelve, how young you had been when we first met. It felt wrong of me to take that from you." 

“So you thought it would be better to abandon me?” Dean asked, eyes wide with disbelief. “You honestly thought I’d be better off alone with a father who wouldn’t look at me and a kid brother who needed the kind of parenting I could never give?”

Castiel pressed a hand to his eyes. “I made a mistake, Dean.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said. “And I can’t risk you making it again. I couldn’t take that, Cas. I really couldn’t.” 

“How can you even think that?” 

Castiel felt the frustration seep out of him all at once, replaced with sorrow. “You yourself said my time here has been one of penance,” he sighed. “For years I’ve thought on what I did, leaving you behind, rejecting you. And for years I’ve understood that that was the worst decision I’ve ever made. Believe me, Dean, it would not be one I’d repeat.”

“I wish I could trust you,” Dean cried. “I swear to God, if I could, I wouldn’t be over here yelling at you. ‘Cause that’s not what I want.”

“Then what _do_ you want, Dean? Because clearly I haven’t got an inkling of what it could be.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak the word they both knew rested behind his lips, but he could not force it out. It hung there, mutely, in the air, refusing to be heard. He slammed his fist down on the top of the Castiel’s bookshelf in frustration, and a dusty volume came tumbling out onto the floor. He examined it, fingers running over the name of the author, one Castiel knew he would recognize. 

“ _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ ,” Dean scoffed, tossing the book back onto the ground. “That’s how you make me feel sometimes, you know that? Twenty thousand leagues under the goddamn fucking sea.”

Slowly, Castiel knelt to pick the book up off the floor. He couldn’t look at Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said after a moment, sounding just as defeated as Castiel felt. “But—”

“Dean.”

“—I can’t be here right now.”

“ _Dean_.”

“Good luck in Alora,” he muttered, tears stinging at his eyes as he pushed his way past Castiel and through the front door. From the window, Castiel watched as he took off towards the pasture where Impala waited. Moments later, they were galloping into the wilderness. Dean did not once look back.

For several long minutes, Castiel merely stood by the window, watching the disappearing figure of the man he loved. He hadn’t gotten a chance to say it, he realized sadly. Panic swept through him at the thought that he might never get to do so now.

But as his adrenaline began to recede and clear thought returned to his mind, Castiel resolved not to let that become his reality. Dean would hear him. He would make sure of it. 

Moments later, as he sat unmoving at his desk, pen and paper in hand, Castiel closed his eyes and breathed. When at last he began to write, the words flowed freely. Everything he’d longed to say spilled out, page upon page of it, until something like peace settled in his bones.

He left the letter on Dean’s makeshift bed, tucked neatly against his pillows. As he saddled Grace in the Wilderness for their trek to Alora, Castiel winged a silent prayer that what he’d written would be enough, not just for him, but for Dean as well.

* * *

It took several long weeks to do so, but Anna was finally the one to bring Castiel back into the land of the living. For months he’d poisoned his body with liquor, first as a companion for lonely evenings in a too-empty house, then as the only lifeline he thought he had.

When he first opened his eyes and the world was not blurred, but sharp-edged and fresh-looking, Castiel cried. The fog was gone, in its place a new understanding. Anna held him for hours that day, speaking just once to tell him how far he’d come.

But things were not as they had been when Castiel reemerged into society. His reputation had been irreparably tarnished in the eyes of his colleagues and friends. He had Anna, yes, but all other prospect of companionship dwindled. That was when the prospect of moving West first began to appeal to him. 

He sent inquiries to counties from Texas to Arizona, and prepared himself for a long wait. Even so, for the first time in years, Castiel felt a glimmer of excitement, of hope.

At yet another one of Anna’s social events, to which he was not expressly invited but begrudgingly dragged by his sister who believed he needed constant monitoring, Castiel found himself in the presence of a very peculiar man.

It wasn’t uncommon for Englishmen to visit the Northeast, but Castiel had never been given the opportunity to meet one. This man, Balthazar (“That’s quite a name,” Castiel remarked; “You’re certainly one to talk,” Balthazar replied) was handsome, to be sure, and wore a constant smile that boasted of confidence and tireless appeal. And he was the only person at the gathering willing to speak to Castiel, as he had not yet heard of his reputation.

Their friendship was cultivated quickly, in part because of the similarity of their minds, and also because Balthazar’s time in the States was limited. Both seemed eager to gain as much from each other as they could before an ocean separated them once more. 

Balthazar was crude and flippant, inappropriate to some, but perfectly wonderful to Cas. He was a newfound light where there had once been only darkness.

They called upon one another daily. They shared their thoughts and their hearts over tea, over dinner, in parks and in museums, on cobblestone streets and front steps; they eventually came to share a bed. Castiel hadn’t expected it when he first began his unorthodox friendship with Balthazar, but when the Englishman had leaned across the dining table one day and pressed their lips together, he found himself wondering how he could have predicted anything less.

It was not as it had been with Amelia, but Castiel discovered that he found his relations with Balthazar equally enjoyable. For once, he felt utterly carefree. He understood what it was to open himself to vulnerability and know that no harm would come from it, only peace. It was not love he felt for Balthazar, not quite, but Castiel’s gratitude knew no bounds. 

When it came time for him to leave for England, their parting was an amicable one. They embraced in the hall of Castiel’s home, each knowing this would be the end of their physical relationship, though they would continue to exchange letters frequently for years to come. Yet there was no sadness in them, only joy at having found another person who accepted them so wholly as they were, no matter how short a time it had been for. 

The day after Balthazar’s departure, a letter arrived for Castiel from a place called Los Huesos. And though it was halfway across the country, leagues from any semblance of what he knew to be home, Castiel knew at once that he would accept whatever position he was offered.

It was time. Time to go forth, time to reflect, time to distance himself from the life he’d lived thus far. He was just shy of his thirtieth year. There could be no better place to start anew. 

Meanwhile, in a small Kansas town, another young man was making a similar decision for himself. The Cattle Trails were calling, and he was ready to ride out and meet them.

Together, without realizing, Dean and Castiel gave themselves permission for their lives to start. Two separate lives, two separate directions, both destined to meet in a dusty Western town just a few short years down the line.

* * *

In later years, the letter would find a home between the novels of Jules Verne, sometimes beneath the cover of one, sometimes as a place marker for another. But most of the time, it was simply a small protuberance of paper amongst the dusty spines of their beloved books, yet just as often read. The envelope itself would eventually fall behind their bed, never to be seen again in either of their lifetimes. But the pages themselves remained preserved. Though the ink faded some and the paper grew stiff and yellowed at the edges, the words never lost their sentiment: 

_Dean,_

_I have enclosed my thoughts in this letter because I fear you will not let me speak them aloud. I pray that you will grant me the small kindness of reading it. You were right to be angry with me after my behavior this morning. I have hardly been consistent with you and I fear that I have caused you more pain than I ever intended to inflict. But I hope that I can at least explain to you my feelings and that you will receive them, not because I expect you to reciprocate, but because I merely wish for you to understand. Perhaps then we can begin our friendship anew. For no matter what form it takes, I truly cannot imagine a life without your presence in it._

_That day in the stables, I confess I did not know myself nearly as well as I do now. Since then, I have had time to reflect, time to acknowledge my mistakes and make sense of my feelings. You remarked upon the sadness of my exile here, but I cannot find fault in the catharsis it has brought me. It is that which allows me to discuss the incident so freely now._

_From the moment I returned to you and your family, I felt a change in our relationship. You and I were both older, yes, but where I had merely added years to my life, you had begun to develop into a man. The child I knew and cared for as a brother was gone; in his place was a person I found myself entirely baffled by. I could not determine the impetus for my feelings. I only knew that I wished to be near you whenever possible, that I desired to hear your thoughts on even the most mundane subjects, that I could never quite find my breath when you smiled in my direction._

_Believe me when I say I did not know this was love, or at least the very first stirrings of it. It was not until I met Amelia that I finally understood the joys of it. Similarly, I did not know what it was to be loved, Dean. Know that when I say you taught me that, I do so with the utmost gratitude._

_Perhaps if I had recognized the signs of your affection sooner, I could have put a stop to it and saved us both a great deal of pain. But, naïvely, I did not. Only at the precipice of the kiss we nearly shared did I finally realize what had been cultivating between us all along._

_I was ashamed, Dean; not of you and not of what we almost did, but of myself. I thought myself a twisted, wretched man for desiring you as I did. You, the son of my dear friend, someone I had once considered a brother. And yet there I was, yearning for you as a lover. I could not stand it, Dean. I could not stand to corrupt you. So I left. No, I fled. I ran in cowardice without explanation. That is what I regret most of all: that I did not speak to you before I went. Again, perhaps things could have been different if I had._

_I know now that loving you was not a crime. You were young, yes, but I would be doing you a disservice to suggest you were not capable of understanding your own heart. God knows you were certainly better at it than I._

_Which leads us to now. I mentioned earlier that I was grateful for my time alone, as it has allowed me to come to terms with all that has happened between us. So here is what I have learned:_

_I love you. I have loved you these many years and will love you for as many more as you allow. I wake every morning having dreamed of you, only the brightest, most pleasant dreams. I find you in every book I have ever read. I see your smile in the sunlight pouring out over the foothills. I feel you in the deepest corners of my mind, an ever-present reminder of the good that is in this world. I love you. Oh, how I love you. If you take nothing else from this letter, take this. It is my heart and it belongs, rightfully, to you._

_I pray that I will see you again. But until the moment of my return, whether you choose to stay or go, I will be thinking of you, Dean. And I hope that you will be thinking of me, too._

_Yours,_

_Castiel_

The days passed slowly for Castiel, who spent much of them worrying over the letter. The dispute itself was settled on the second day, with the town granting the rancher half the land he’d asked for, a compromise that seemed to appease all parties involved. Castiel wasted no time in leaving Alora, despite the many offers he received for drinks and lodging. He’d ride through the night if he had to. All that he hoped for remained in Los Huesos.

But when Castiel arrived early in the morning on the third day, Impala was not grazing in the pasture and the house was cast in darkness. When he stepped inside, no one was there to respond to his foolishly hopeful greeting. Dean had left.

The first hour, Castiel scoured the house for some sort of explanation. But he only discovered his own letter, lying in the same position he’d left it, as if no one had bothered to read it at all. 

By the time he was able to admit to himself that Dean had really and truly gone, the sun was already beginning to set. He lit a few candles to chase the shadows away, then sat at the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap, wondering what he could possibly do now.

The opening and closing of the front door went unnoticed.

Another hour or so had passed with Castiel sitting motionless on his bed, and his senses had dulled to little else except the slow beating of his heart. In the end, it was the soft creaking of the floorboards that swept Castiel out of his thoughts and towards the figure in the doorway. He drew in a long breath, but found he could not speak.

Dean stood at the edge of the threshold, framed in the warm glow of candlelight. His fingers twisted nervously at the sleeves of his shirt. “I read your letter,” he said.

Castiel swallowed thickly. “I thought you’d left.”

Clearly seeing the distress in his eyes, Dean went to his side. “I was never planning on leaving you, Cas,” he said gently. “I just knew you were coming back this morning and I…I had to be off on my own a little longer. To clear my head.”

“And have you?”

Dean slid his hand over Castiel’s, squeezed it tight. “Twice in my life, you left me behind,” he began. “But I never thought that was the end for us. It was like a part of me just knew.”

“Knew what?” asked Castiel, and he did not dare conceal his hope now.

“That there was nobody else for me.”

There was no hesitation this time, although they would both later recall that it probably took them ages to kiss. In the molasses-slow seconds that followed, Castiel brought his hands to Dean’s face and stroked his thumbs across his freckled cheeks. He ran his fingers over Dean’s forehead, tracing his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, caressing the smooth swell of his lips.

When they finally did kiss, it was a revelation. No two mouths were so better made for one another, Castiel decided, no two pairs of hands so equally matched to clasp and to hold. Every inch of him was soaring, leaping with joy.

All the years leading up to this moment fell away. Dean was all that mattered now. Dean cupping his face and kissing his mouth. Dean, pressed in close, wanting him. He could ask anything of him now and Castiel would freely give it. He would do anything just to keep him here. 

Dean’s arms wound around his neck, tugging him closer. Cas smiled and kissed him warmly, seeking out his tongue and all the dark, secret corners behind his lips. They sighed and shuddered against each other, running hands down each other’s backs and through each other’s hair, mouths chasing after one another eagerly.

And then the world tilted forward and Dean was flat on his back across the mattress, tugging Castiel after him with a grin until they were chest to chest. He looped his legs around Castiel’s waist and used that leverage to urge their hips together. They pushed and pulled for several moments, panting out each other’s names, exchanging kiss after kiss as though any spare moment without them would be too much to bear.

“Tell me what you want,” Castiel whispered. 

Between his soft moans, those unexpectedly delicate sounds that dropped something deep into Castiel’s stomach like stones in clear water, Dean gasped, “Everything.”

They undressed slowly, pulling off shirts and pants, kicking away socks and underwear, trying desperately not to keep from touching one another for more than was absolutely necessary. Their eyes met between the unbuttoning and the shifting, and each time they smiled and blushed and love bloomed up so fully in Castiel that he thought he might drown in it.

In the silence, he became aware of rain drumming softly against the windows, having picked up sometime during their coupling. The gentle hush of it blanketed the house in a thin, misty veil. Castiel felt tucked away, hidden, like this moment belonged to him and Dean alone. The rest of the world could not enter or object.

When he looked back to where Dean had rolled away from him to shuck off his pants, the younger man was watching him with soft, hooded eyes, a flush creeping up the naked skin of his chest and neck. For a moment, they did nothing but breathe in the sight of each other. Then, with much less grace than he’d hoped for, Cas kicked his clothes aside and pulled Dean into his arms.

“Have you ever…?” Castiel asked once he’d pressed Dean down onto the soft spread of his mattress.

“Never got this far with a man,” Dean replied. “You?" 

Cas nipped at his jaw, kissed the full swell of his lower lip. “Not in a very long time.”

Dean smiled and laced their fingers together. He looked beautiful in the candlelight. “I trust you,” he said, although the question had never been asked of him. And Castiel kissed him gratefully in reply. 

They explored each other with equal parts reverence and desire, hands skittering over taut muscles and the soft places between hipbones, behind knees; mouths travelling feverishly across any open expanse of flesh they could reach, nipping at each other’s lips and neck, tonguing at collarbones and behind ears, until every part of their bodies sang the other’s name. 

Castiel took Dean’s cock in his hand and stroked it languidly, relishing the firm weight of it against his palm, and earned an unexpectedly loud groan from Dean. He brushed his thumb over the head, spreading moisture down the length of it, delighting in the way Dean seemed to fall apart beneath him with every touch. He trailed the fingers of his free hand lower still, and paused. 

“May I?” he asked.

In lieu of a reply, Dean grasped Castiel’s hand and steered it slowly down between his legs, until it brushed against his entrance. Encouraged, Castiel circled one finger, just barely, around it, to which Dean breathed out a quiet, eager, “Yes.”

What followed was a hasty scramble for the drawer of the bedside table, from which Cas withdrew a container of Vaseline, remarking to Dean in a wry voice that the manufacturers probably never intended it for _this_ purpose. He coated his fingers in it as Dean watched, transfixed, from his sprawl on the bed, pupils blown wide with arousal.

The first press of his finger, pushing gently inside, came as somewhat of a shock to both of them. Castiel had forgotten what it was like to touch another person this way, the intimacy of it, the warmth it kindled in his chest. And Dean, Cas realized, was already overtaken by the newness of it, the heat and the fullness of it. No one had been fortunate enough to share this with him until now.

It was a slow process, allowing Dean time to adjust and, selfishly, allowing himself a few extra moments to take the entire picture of it in. With nothing but the rain pattering against the roof to accompany him, Castiel began to memorize the innermost parts of Dean’s body, adding two, and then three fingers in with the first, drawing out a breathtaking chorus of moans and sighs. They filled Castiel full to the brim, until all that he felt poured over, illustrated in the gentle glide of his fingers. 

When he’d pressed in deep enough, he began to crook his fingers, searching, until finally he drew a single, surprised cry from Dean’s parted lips. He repeated the motion, and watched as Dean crumpled above him, hands fisting in the bed sheets.

“Like this?” Cas asked, his voice a mixture of pride and blatant lustfulness, so thick that the very heat of his own breath seemed liable to stifle him.

Dean nodded, panting, “Like that.”

Castiel took more time than he needed to. Even with the Vaseline to ease the stretch, he worked his fingers in and out slowly, listening carefully to every stutter of Dean’s breath, any potentially uncomfortable shift of his body.

But Dean didn’t have a single complaint about the entire situation. He was more focused on rocking his hips down to meet Castiel’s ministrations, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach, moaning with such abandon that Cas had to press his forehead to the cool fabric of his sheets every now and then, lest he lose his composure entirely. 

“Damn it, Cas, come on,” Dean whined after several more minutes had passed by.

Castiel chuckled and kissed at the crease of his thigh, relishing the warmth of the skin there, and the subsequent hitch of Dean’s breath. “Patience. We’ve waited this long, haven’t we?”

“Damn long enough,” Dean growled, and rolled them over until he was seated in Castiel’s lap. 

Secretly thrilled with his eagerness, Cas coated his cock in more of the Vaseline and shuddered at the sensation, having forced himself to ignore the ache of it for so long. He licked at Dean’s kiss-bitten lips, and sighed. Eager as he was to be inside of him, Cas was already dizzy with the prospect of lying together afterwards, having no obligation other than to kiss each other again and again in the quiet of his bedroom. But first, came this. 

Without any more preamble, Dean rose up and aligned himself with the thick head of Castiel’s cock, lip pulled between his teeth. Although his experience with other men had likely been limited to fooling around in dark alleys or a drunken night on the Trail, Dean seemed knowledgeable enough of the task at hand.

They were both sweating with the effort it took to keep themselves restrained, breath coming in long, heaving bursts. “Slow,” Cas told him, though every inch of his body screamed otherwise.

But Dean could only nod in response. He seemed to have lost the sureness that had painted his speech earlier. The feverish passion of their previous embraces had faded, replaced with something quieter, deeper, reflected in his eyes. 

Castiel pressed their foreheads together, brushed his nose against Dean’s. He breathed in deeply, encouraging Dean to do the same. And somewhere along the way, Dean lowered himself, and joined their bodies together.

When he was finally seated fully in Castiel’s lap, taking in deep, gulping breaths as his body adjusted to the intrusion, they kissed, mouths falling open to take the other in. After a moment of languid brushes of lips and tongue, Cas began to thrust his hips upward, driving in slow and deep. Dean whimpered, but his hands moved to fist themselves in Castiel’s hair, and Cas knew at once that the sound hadn’t been out of pain, but pleasure. 

Cas wanted to bury his face in Dean’s shoulder, already overwhelmed by the smoothness and the heat closing in around him. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dean, and he watched, spellbound, as discomfort melted into desire, apprehension into joy. He picked up his pace, thrusting steadily into him. Dean panted hotly against his mouth, fingers still twisted in Castiel’s unruly hair.

After several seconds of rocking together, Dean breathed out _more, more_ against Castiel’s lips and any semblance of restraint quickly diminished. Cas tipped them both back into the bed sheets, and Dean’s hands scrambled for the headboard as the new angle pushed Cas deeper inside of him.

Before resuming his thrusts, Castiel raised one of Dean’s legs and leaned down to press soft, worshipful kisses against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, before securing it around his waist. Dean threw his head back and let out a loud, ecstatic cry when Cas snapped his hips forward, aligning their bodies once more.

The pace was gentle, still, but insistent enough that Dean writhed with every inward drive of Castiel’s hips, completely overcome, lips forming the word _yes_ again and again. Cas kissed him, though it was really more a matter of settling his mouth over Dean’s and breathing there with him.

Their skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, though the air around them still carried remnants of the chill from outside. Shivering, Dean loosened his grip on the headboard and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, legs around his hips. When their eyes met, he smiled, soft and pleased. And that, Castiel thought, was the most beautiful moment yet.

They settled into a steady tempo together, bodies pressed close, foreheads brushing. It was fast enough to keep them moving forward towards release, but allowed them those precious moments to savor the slip and slide of their bodies moving against one another. 

Cas wanted to whisper words of love again, to reiterate what he’d said in the letter, but insecurity held him back. Dean wanted him – _only_ him – but that didn’t necessarily mean his feelings were returned with the same intensity they were years ago. Even as Castiel pushed the thought away in favor of thrusting deeper, kissing harder, it surfaced every so often in his conscious, insistent. It wasn’t until he felt the pressure in his hips begin to unravel, that he was able to banish the urge completely.

Dean was losing himself to it as well, digging his nails into Castiel’s shoulders, whimpering high and loud, voice just this side of ragged. Cas reached a hand between them and stroked at Dean’s cock, desperate to see his release before finding his own.

It didn’t take long. With the combined pressure of his thrusts and the swift flicks of his wrist, Castiel tipped Dean over the edge until he was coming in thick, white stripes, painting Castiel’s stomach and tearing a long, wrecked groan from both of them. The sight of it was enough for Cas and, just seconds later, he spilled inside of Dean, toppling into his orgasm with such force that the corners of his vision swept into blackness.

They collapsed together, pleasure still bubbling lightly under their skin. For a moment, Castiel could register nothing more than the sound of his own breath bursting from his lungs and Dean’s damp skin beneath his lips. That, and a burgeoning desire to do nothing but make passionate love to each other for the rest of their lives. Yes, that he felt quite clearly.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean panted when he’d finally regained the ability to speak. “I mean, honestly Cas, Christ Al-fucking-mighty.”

Castiel chuckled and kissed his throat. “I hope those colorful and somewhat offensive swears mean nothing but good things.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, seeking out Castiel’s lips again. “Yeah, ‘course. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I realized I didn’t say something I’ve been meaning to tell you for, well,” Dean laughed and thumbed at Castiel’s cheeks tenderly, “just about as long as I’ve known you.”

Castiel surged forward to kiss him deeply, already knowing the phrase but desiring, more than anything, to hear it fall from Dean’s lips. “Say it,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I love you,” Dean said quietly at first. Then, boldly, “I am so in love with you.”

“Again.”

Dean grinned. “I love you.”

“Again.”

“I _love_ you.”

And then they were kissing again, somewhere between the smiles and laughter, kissing breathlessly and joyfully as the candle wax dripped and sealed over the bedside table and the rain whispered against the windowpanes; kissing until Castiel moved once more inside of him and Dean could not help but request that they start everything all over again. 

Castiel was happy to oblige.

When the first rays of sunlight drifted between the curtains and onto the intertwined figures on the bed, neither moved. Castiel had always been an early riser, but he could not imagine tearing himself away from Dean so soon. The night’s activities had exhausted him in the most deeply pleasant of ways, but the moments he was blessed with to hold Dean in his arms and whisper pledge upon pledge of love restored him.

The world outside was devoid of mist and storm clouds, cast instead in the warm glow of the sun. Castiel hoped, sleepily, that it would bring the plains to life again and hasten this desolate winter to its end.

In his arms, Dean stirred. Cas stroked his hair, his cheek, his lips, still full and swollen from their blissful hours of lovemaking.

“That feels nice.”

Cas smiled as Dean’s eyes fluttered opened. He pulled Dean closer and kissed him softly, still taking advantage of every opportunity to touch him now that he knew he could.

“Waking up to you was _very_ nice,” he said.

Dean hummed in agreement. “Let’s make a habit of it.”

“We could, you know,” Castiel said quietly once they settled back down together, legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other. “Make a habit of it, that is." 

“How’s that?” 

“I could come back to Kansas with you,” he replied. It was the first time he’d voiced his thoughts on the matter, and he prayed they would be well-met. “There’s a deputy I know of in Alora who would happily take a promotion to sheriff. And I’m sure there’s always a need for a lawyer in Lawrence. Or even another town close by. I wouldn’t mind the commute.”

Dean sat up on his elbows, gazing down at Cas with eyebrows drawn together. “You mean you’d just leave this all behind? For me?”

“I think we’ve established that I love you very much,” Castiel said with a shrug. “And it’s possible you were right about me. I’ve been in exile long enough.”

“Cas,” Dean murmured. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Say ‘yes’,” Castiel whispered, tugging Dean down to kiss him once again. “If you’re as tired of running as I am of hiding, then say ‘yes’.”

The word came quickly from Dean’s lips, only to be thoroughly lost against Castiel’s.

Two weeks later, they had shipped all of Castiel’s belongings off to Lawrence, leaving nothing but the essentials to carry with them on the long journey back. Dean hoisted himself into Impala’s saddle and ran his fingers through her mane. The horse snorted in what some might call affection. 

“Great big road ahead of us, baby,” he cooed. “Nothing we ain’t seen before.”

Castiel, who sat stoically atop Grace in the Wilderness, taking in the scenery of New Mexico one last time, smiled. “I feel good,” he announced.

Dean chuckled. “No more panicking?”

“I was not _panicking_ ,” Castiel corrected. “Anxiety is a very reasonable emotion to experience when leaving a home behind.”

The breeze picked up, nearly sweeping Dean’s hat from his head and ruffling Castiel’s already unruly hair. Though their breath still appeared in a pale mist before them, the air had grown warmer in the past few days, a subtle heralding of the spring weather to come. 

“And now?” Dean asked.

“Like I said, I feel good,” Cas replied with a smile. “This is a road I’m meant to take with you. I can feel it.”

“It’ll be a slow one. Couple weeks at least.”

“I’m ready for it if you are,” said Castiel. 

Dean leaned over to kiss him gently. “Been ready for a long, long time.” 

They took off down the trail heading East, where the clouds billowed white and the plains stretched on endlessly. This was the end of a chapter, but certainly not the end of the book. And it would not be the last time Castiel saw Los Huesos. There were plenty of roads to travel, plenty of frontiers to explore, and as long as they ended in Dean, he would be willing to take them all.

But for now, there was just one road he was interested in. The road that would take him home. If he closed his eyes, Castiel could almost picture it: the poplar trees, the picket fence, the ranch standing tall and proud, and, of course, Dean. 


End file.
